A Voice from the Field

by Neal Griffin

  They hadn’t really been in contact then—there was no connection between them, after all. So Tia had been quite surprised when she’d joined the Marines and climbed aboard a bus for a twenty-two-hour trip to Parris Island—and found Connor Anderson sitting by a window, with an open seat beside him. Tia was just eighteen and Connor was a month shy of his twenty-first birthday and it was during that long journey that they really got to know each other. Thinking about the bus ride still made her want to smile and cry at the same time.

  Connor had spoken of his love of farming and his dream of owning land of his own. He’d talked about the secret of aging cheese and about the government conspiracy that was behind milk prices. He’d decided to join up to do his part in the fight against terror. He really believed in it. To him, the Marines were his way of paying back his country. Tia had just wanted to get the hell out of Newberg.

  By the time they arrived at the recruit depot in South Carolina, Tia was thinking it was too bad they hadn’t met before signing their lives away. Five minutes after the bus pulled in, Connor headed for the male side of the island and Tia went the other way. She didn’t see him again until three years later, on the medevac chopper that carried them both out of Helmond Province. Tia with a flesh wound from a nasty fall that took a dozen sutures to close; Connor with his right leg shredded from the hip down and his left gone at the knee. What was left of him was in shock and near death. Looking at him now, she was impressed as hell with how far he had come.

  Connor scratched at his hip socket—Tia knew that on hot days like this his skin became raw from rubbing against the hard plastic—but when he spoke his voice was lazy and laconic as ever, betraying no discomfort. “Hand me one of those?” He flapped one hand toward the ice bucket.

  Tia passed over a cold bottle of beer.

  “Shot of Patrón?” She figured she had to offer.

  He gave her an easy smile that Tia thought had some pity laced in. “Nah. I’ll stick with the beer.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Tia poured another healthy shot into her glass and tossed it back. Connor shook his head like he had already seen enough. “I heard about this morning. I know you’re angry but—”

  Tia cut him off. “Don’t start, Connie. Really. I just want to sit here and be free of all that bullshit. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. So just do me a solid and sit there and drink your beer, go inside to watch the damn ball game, or get back in your truck and leave.” Tia pointed an unsteady hand down the driveway to emphasize her point. “And by the way, next time Jackson calls to fill you in on everyone’s favorite little pity project? Tell him to mind his own damn business.”

  “Wasn’t Travis who called me,” Connor said flatly. “Sawyer did.”

  Great, Tia thought, shaking her head. That’s all I need. “Well, the same goes for him.”

  “Sure.” Connor nodded. “I’ll tell the chief of police you said he can–”

  “Oh, knock it off, Connor.” Tia took a healthy hit off her beer. She loved Connor more than anyone, but at this point she was pretty sure he was out to ruin her afternoon. She shook her head in frustration. “What is it about men? Why can’t a woman just kick back once in a while? Can’t we just take a six-pack and relax? You guys sure as hell do.”

  “Come on, Tia. You just told me a few days ago, you hadn’t had a drink in two weeks.” He looked at the empties. “You making up for lost time or what?”

  Tia poured another healthy shot and blew an air kiss Connor’s way before she tossed the tequila back.

  Ringo whined, turning his head back and forth in conflict over the only two people he cared about it. They sat staring at each other until, after a long moment, Tia gave in and looked away. An instant later, she felt Connor’s strong grip on her arm.

  The gentle squeeze of his warm hand set off a cascade of memories. His familiar touch: strong when it needed to be but usually gentle. The way he could effortlessly get inside her skin, understand her moods like nobody ever had. The way he used ten words to say what took most people a thousand. She knew he wanted to help, but her temptation was to tell him to stuff it. He’s not a cop. What does he know?

  That was unkind, she knew. He had more experience of life and death than most of the people on the force in Newberg.

  Sergeant Connor Anderson had been a team leader on a marine sniper unit, tasked with performing missions cleared at the highest levels of government. Connor had a dozen confirmed kills, the closest from seven hundred meters out. While on reconnaissance of an identified target, Connor had been less than three feet away from a marine who stepped on a massively powerful IED. That man was vaporized before his eyes and Connor’s legs were shredded in the blast. His team came under immediate assault. Connor assisted in his own emergency first aid, then directed his team to repel the attack. Because of his skills, not only did the marines suffer no further loss of life, but the confirmed enemy body count was thirteen Taliban KIA.

  After being evacuated, Connor spent ten weeks confined to a bed in the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, undergoing seventeen surgical procedures. There were another half-dozen operations during his four months attached to the Wounded Warrior Battalion at the Naval Medical Center San Diego. Eventually the navy hooked him up with state-of-the-art prosthetic legs. Before being medically discharged, Connor was awarded the Bronze Star with a combat V. Tia had flown out for the ceremony, which had been attended by a thousand marines including the assistant commandant, along with both California senators and the lieutenant governor.

  Three years later, Connor had reached the point where a stranger wouldn’t even know his right leg was man-made starting at the hip joint and the left was fake below the knee. His superhuman recovery was a testament to his determination, but it had gradually become clear his new body couldn’t hold up under the rigors of farming. Even doing the work of a hired hand had proven to be too much.

  Tia knew the man well enough to know he’d never give up on his dream, but for now Connor Anderson was stocking shelves in the freezer section of the Piggly Wiggly grocery store, earning a buck over minimum wage. That, combined with his disability checks, left him eligible for food stamps, but to her knowledge he had never cashed in. If he felt like he had gotten cheated, she’d never heard him say it. Not once.

  “You need to take a step back,” Connor said. “Just regroup a bit.”

  Tia shook her head. “You sound like Sawyer.” She knew her words were thick from the alcohol. “If it was up to you two, I’d still be sitting on the damn sidelines. How long, Connie, huh? How long am I supposed to sit around the office? I’m a cop, not a clerk. Both of you need to let me be.”

  “I’m not saying you can’t work, but didn’t the doc say go easy? You know, light duty and admin stuff. You shouldn’t have been out there.”

  Tia didn’t want to hear about what some shrink might think. “Being out there wasn’t a problem. It was all the stuff afterward.”

  “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. You were doing great. Now look where we’re at.”

  “We?” Her voice was too loud. “We aren’t anywhere. This is me. Me being alone with myself.”

  Alone wasn’t the right word, Tia thought. Abandoned. Forgotten. Deserted. That’s how it felt.

  In the months before she’d been shot, Tia and Connor had begun a relationship that seemed to have limitless possibilities. It had started with Tia helping Connor in the gym with his rehab. Some days he’d stop by and do light work around the farmhouse. Their friendship progressed to ball games and a few dinners for two. Long walks and hours spent talking. They both knew what was coming, but neither knew what to expect. They were tentative at first, even awkward. But together they soon established that what the Taliban had done to the man’s legs didn’t affect the rest of him.

  Then came the shooting, Tia’s long recovery in Mexico, and a series of life-shattering revelations that she was still figuring out how to handle. Her ridiculous breakdown in th
e courtroom. A long period of therapy that she found so humiliating and confusing that she didn’t know what to do other than lock herself away and drink. It all got to be too much.

  There had been many opportunities for her to sit down with Connor and tell him the truth. To tell him just what it was that scared the hell out of her and pushed her to the bottle. To the pills. Instead, she pushed him away.

  “Look, Tia. You’ve had a hell of a shitty year. Now this? That was a nasty fight out there. Maybe you should take a step back again. Take some time. Hell, why not you and me? We could just get away. Just for a couple of days. Nobody is going to think anything of it. I know Chief Sawyer will approve the time off.”

  Tia flared up. “I told you. Leave Sawyer out of this. If you talk to him, I swear, Connor Anderson, I’ll—”

  “I’m just saying I know he cares about you. I mean you and he are tight, right?”

  “Tight? You bet, Connie. I’m crazy about him. The guy who pulled me off the front line and labeled me fifty-one-fifty. We’re best buds.”

  “That’s not fair. Sawyer’s got your back. Any other chief, you’d be gone already, and you know it.”

  “Then why does he send you out here? Can’t he come himself?”

  “It’s not easy, Tia. You guys … you and Sawyer. Hell, you’ve been through a lot, but he’s the chief now. He can’t be getting involved in this stuff without—well, without having to do some chief shit.”

  Tia looked at Connie. “Chief shit?”

  “You know what I mean. He sent me to check on you so it can be unofficial. Make sure you’re okay, without having to get formally involved,” Connor said. “I know he just wants to help you get back to your old self.”

  “Well, neither of you needs to worry about me. And what’s this ‘old self’ stuff?” She thumped the open palm of her hand against her chest and spoke with defiance. “This is me right here. Take it or leave it. People change, Connie.”

  Connor shook his head. “I’m not buying that. Drunk and stoned on your porch? This isn’t you, Tia.”

  The truth hurt and she turned her face away.

  Connor stood as if to leave. Tia knew she wanted him to stay. He leaned in and kissed her lightly on top of her head. She sensed another movement and reached out, clamping her fist over his where it was wrapped around the neck of the tequila bottle.

  Her voice deadly serious, Tia said, “Leave it.”

  Connor pulled his hand back. “Fine, but I’m going to stick around, all right? I’ll be inside watching the game. You should join me.”

  Tia had been terrified by the thought of being alone at the farmhouse, but she couldn’t bring herself to show any gratitude toward Connor. She shrugged. “Do whatever you want. I’ll be in after a while.”

  Tia watched him enter her house until the screen door shut behind him. Get back to my old self, she thought. What if he knew? What if he knew exactly what that would mean?

  She shook it off, grabbing the bottle of tequila. She had bought it on the way home from the courthouse and had already powered through half of it. Tia knew if she put her mind to it she could muster the willpower to stop. It would have been harder alone, but Connie was here now. They could watch the ball game. Throw steaks on the grill. He would expect nothing in return. All she had to do was stand up and walk inside. It would be a smart decision. He’d stay the night and she knew that would help.

  What happens if she shows up anyway? Tia asked herself. Calling out to me. Trying to pull me back in. At this level of intoxication, Tia knew the voice would be weaker, as if coming from underwater. But she could still hear her, calling out.

  She needs you, Tia. Go to her.

  Tia shut off her mind. Ignoring the shot glass, she raised the bottle to her lips and swallowed hard, twice. Her chest burned. Her thoughts looped in crazy circles and she laid her head back against the chair. Her friendship with Sawyer was a distant memory. And it didn’t make any sense that a man like Connor Anderson could ever really care for her. There was no one to turn to. No one to confide in. Tia closed her eyes, consumed by the feeling she was utterly and completely alone.

  FIVE

  She woke in darkness. The humid air had grown cool and come alive with Wisconsin night sounds. Connor’s truck still sat parked in the same spot. She heard Ringo’s steady breath and saw his outline in the darkness. The dog had picked her after all. At first Tia couldn’t move; it felt like her body had fused to the wood of the chair. She finally pulled herself to her feet with some effort, repeated explosions detonating just under the surface of her skull and growing louder when the empty tequila bottle fell from her lap and clattered on the porch. Ringo, no doubt fighting his own aches and pains, jumped halfway to his feet with a low growl.

  Without warning her stomach did a complete 360. Tia grabbed the wooden bannister with both hands and leaned out just in time to retch up a gallon of tequila, beer, and prescription meds, all of it clearing the porch railing by a foot. The smell, along with the putrid taste in her mouth, nearly brought on round two. She turned her head away, drew a deep breath of clean air through her nostrils, and closed her eyes, concentrating on not vomiting again. The moment passed. She straightened up a bit, still swaying, and stared into the darkened field. In her present condition she could barely see the outline.

  Three hundred and seventy-two steps, she thought. Give or take a few, depending on how messed up I really am.

  Tia looked down at the porch steps as if staring into the abyss. Her first step landed with the wobbly thump of a drunk. Eventually she made it to the driveway, where she paused to gather strength, bending over and resting her forehead on the cool metal of the hood of Connor’s truck. After a moment, she headed down the worn path, the grass soft and cool against her bare feet, homing in on the silver shell reflecting the moonlight. Even in her current state she walked along the path with a growing confidence brought on by childhood familiarity. She arrived at the thin metal door and pushed it open. She stepped inside and didn’t fight the sense of being transported back in time.

  The space was cramped but comfortable. She breathed in the familiar smell of refried beans mixed with her father’s pipe tobacco. A worn couch and chair were turned toward a floor-model RCA console television that she remembered was heavy enough to double as the anchor for a naval ship. The black-and-white television took up a third of the room and the rabbit-ear antenna was still perfectly positioned to pick up the Univision broadcast out of Chicago.

  Tia headed down the short hall, passing the closet-sized room that had served for twenty years as her parents’ master suite. She walked into her bedroom, even smaller than the other. Brad Paisley stared down from one wall and the Dixie Chicks, still together, from another. She collapsed onto the single bed, amazed that somehow the sheets, which had spent hundreds of collective hours on the clothesline, still smelled of sunlight.

  She lay there in a semi-conscious stupor, remembering. This place. This room. Looking back, she had grown to realize just how poor her family had been, but it didn’t matter. As a child, Tia figured she had it all. After spending the first five years of her life traveling from one migrant camp to the next, her family had landed here. They had lived on this farm for nearly fifteen years in a tin trailer that was less than four hundred square feet. To Tia, it had been a palace. A home filled with the unconditional love of her parents, not to mention running water and electricity.

  Right now, she wanted desperately to feel connected to that life. The simplicity and warmth. The sanity of it. Tia lay still, closing her eyes, trying to conjure up that love, those old feelings and images. Anything to help restore the life she had known.

  A light weight settled onto the mattress alongside her. A small body nuzzled in close. Tia’s mind screamed at her to ignore it, that it wasn’t real, but it was too late. Reluctantly, Tia turned to look, knowing who was there. As expected, she saw a childish face, brown eyes filled with love and affection. The little girl’s hair smelled like lavender. When
she spoke, her voice was lyrical.

  Hola, Tia.

  Try as she might to resist, Tia found herself pouring her soul into the moment, into this bond with another person like nothing she’d experienced with anyone else. Not with Connor, not with Ben, not with her own parents. She tried to hold back, reminding herself that crazy people hear voices and see people who aren’t there, not cops.

  “No,” Tia said out loud, shaking her head, fighting the hallucination. Fear crept over her, making her feel sluggish, her limbs weighted down. She knew the vividness of the moment caused the terror. Staring at the girl lying next to her, Tia rejected the evidence of her own eyes.

  “I am alone,” she told herself. “You’re not real. You can’t stay here. You need to leave me alone.”

  The child’s reply seemed to be coming from outside her mind, as if a real person were whispering in Tia’s ear. Usted no está solo, Tia. Alguna vez.

  Tia shook her head, refusing the magic. The young face faded and grew older. The eyes went from joyful and innocent to terrified, the lashes caked in red mascara. Disembodied hands swam out of the darkness to slap duct tape over the now-mature mouth. An unseen force jerked the girl off the bed and she disappeared into a swirl of black. Tia heard the teenager’s body thud against the floor, heard her muffled screams. Unable to move, pinned in place by fear and alcohol, Tia felt her mind was filled with the child’s voice, shouting, Ándale, Tia. Ándale!

  Tia buried her head in the pillow. She could still hear the sound of a body being dragged down the hall, the front door swinging open and banging against the aluminum siding. Finally the young woman’s desperate cries faded into the distance. Tia had her hands clamped over her ears, but she still heard every strangled shout.

  Is she real now? Do I go after her? What if none of it is real?